Now Janson ducked behind a concrete pillar. As he expected, the man with the submachine gun overhead repositioned himself to gain an angle on Janson. But in doing so he had exposed himself. Peering around the corner, Janson caught a fleeting glimpse of a short, stocky moonfaced man who held the AKS-74 as if it were part of him. A brief fusillade tore into the pillar he hid behind. Janson snaked a hand around it and squeezed off a blind shot. He heard it twang against steel-pipe railing and knew he had missed. Sudden footsteps on the steel catwalk helped him locate the man in space, however, and he squeezed off three more shots.

Each one missed. Damn—what had he expected? And yet he could not visually locate the man with the assault weapon without exposing himself to his deadly fire.

Light briefly flooded the dim warehouse as somebody opened a side door.

He heard footsteps—somebody racing into the cavernous space.

Another burst came from the AKS-74, directed not at Janson but at the unseen arrival.

“Oh shit! Oh shit!” It was Barry Cooper’s voice.

He couldn’t believe it: Barry Cooper had made his way into the abandoned warehouse.

“Barry, what the hell are you doing here?” Janson called.

“Right now, I’m asking myself that. Heard all this gunfire when I was in the car, got scared, and I ran in here trying to escape. Pretty dumb, huh?”

“Truthfully? Yes.”

Another fusillade brought up a storm of sparks from the concrete floor.

Janson stepped back from the pillar and saw what was happening. Barry Cooper was huddled behind a large steel drum while the man on the catwalk began to reposition himself.

“I don’t know what to do,” Cooper said in a half wail.

“Barry, do what I’d do.”

“Gotcha.”

A shot rang out, and the short, stocky man on the catwalk abruptly stiffened.

“That’s right, baby. Make love, not war, motherfucker,” Cooper yelled as he emptied the entire clip of his pistol into the gunman overhead.

Now Janson could move around the pillar, and he immediately squeezed off a shot at Ratko’s companion, who hovered with a knife near the trussed woman.

“Sranje! Shit!” the man called out. The bullet had struck his shoulder, and he let the knife drop. The man sank to the ground, moaning and incapacitated.

Janson saw the woman snake a foot out toward the knife, and bring it close to her. Then she wedged it between her two heels and, her legs shaking with the effort, gradually raised it off the ground.

The Serb giant seemed torn between two targets, Cooper and Janson.

“Drop the gun, Ratko!” Janson yelled.

“I fuck your mother!” the giant Serb spat, and he squeezed off a shot at Barry Cooper.